


The Great Ineffable Baking Show

by Connor_Soong



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Beelzebub is a Youtuber a la HowToBasic, Cake, Clueless Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crepes, F/M, Florist Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Food, Gabriel is Paul Hollywood, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Librarian Aziraphale (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Not even I know who's going to win, Other, Pop Culture, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 18:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21306566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Connor_Soong/pseuds/Connor_Soong
Summary: On this year's season of bake off, judges Gabriel and Beelzebub have to deal with new co-hosts Madame Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell, and a dozen eccentric home bakers, among whom are the focus of this series; Aziraphale Fell and Anthony Crowley. Through shenanigans, the occasional fire, sabotage, cosplay, the rare excellent bake, the will of Satan, accidental romantic gestures, and the sheer cluelessness of soft-hearted librarians and gardening nannies, the network just might have a season to break the ratings records... or at least the set.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40





	The Great Ineffable Baking Show

It was sunny and humid as 12 amateur bakers assembled outside the Bake-Off tent for the first time, clouds lurking nearby but not quite threatening rain just yet. As usual, the contestants represented a wide array of backgrounds and senses of style, some more normative than others. Cameras panned over the lineup before rotating to reveal the stone faces of the returning judges. Gabriel Merritt, the golden boy of culinary television with three successful restaurants and two other shows airing in Britain, had his lips pressed in a tight line as he began to compare the contestants’ outfits to his own neat turtleneck and jacket with disdain. His co-judge, a viral Youtube chef and prankster who was contractually required to be referred to by their channel name, Lord Beelzebub, by all staff and contestants, stood slouched in a dark suit and sash with their hands folded behind their back, smirking at the chaotic bunch they’d been sent.

A camera swooped into the tent, where the comic relief secondary hosts were holding a séance to guess who would win the series. Madame Tracy, a self-proclaimed psychic medium who reportedly channeled a producer’s dead parrot to get the job, led the gibberish; all the while, Sergeant? Shadwell, a retired something-or-other, followed along clumsily with a face that said he would like to be anywhere else if it weren’t for the paycheck he’d been promised. He’d been recruited after going viral in a witch-hunting episode of a popular paranormal web-series

“The spirits demand it be a surprise until the tenth week!” Tracy announced, leaning about dramatically, “-oh but here they all come now!”

Skit complete, the hosts took turns introducing the bakers as they filed into the tent and to the stations they’d been assigned. Tracy began the narration, hoping her associate would imitate her flowery and theatrical intonation to reduce his brash slurring of the dry script. “Hastur is a process server from Bradford who hopes to bring his time-management skills into play in the kitchens. He lives in a flat with his pet frog, Rosier, and spends his weekends practicing vegetarian recipes to accommodate a red meat allergy. I’ll bet he does a lovely tofu curry.”

A pale, unnerving figure entered the tent, lurking near the entrance before shambling to his place. An unpleasant, sour smell followed him in. His fingerless gloves, poorly-fitted jacket, and shock of pale, unwashed hair gave him an almost vagrant or criminal appearance, and the shifty way he peered around didn’t improve the impression. Eyes a shade of brown that neared black raked over the inner tent before their owner let out a bored sigh, scratching at an eczemic rash on his neck.

Shadwell frowned at the script as he recited his first introduction rather tiredly. “Michael is an office manager in Wolverhampton who has turned weekly work potlucks into a culinary lab.”

The antithesis to Hastur’s limping gait and disheveled ensemble, a woman in a tidy updo and sensible shoes strode in, stalking primly to her station without so much as wrinkling her pressed suit. She stood at attention, expression and pose schooled like that of a soldier in line for inspection.

Tracy accentuated the pep in her words this time, glancing deliberately at Shadwell as she smiled sunnily. “Mary runs a paintball range near Tadfield, at the former convent where she used to be a nun, and bakes biscuits and pies from period recipes for church events and historical reenactments. I tried her pink-iced biscuits at auditions, delightful woman.”

A well-dressed but far less confident woman followed, greeting her silent fellow contestants cheerily as she went and muttering to herself about how exciting this all was. Her dark lipstick was smeared, a few biscuit crumbs clinging to the wax from pre-filming tea, and her mouth never stopped moving as she corrected the makeup using the reflection from her oven door, sighing and whispering affirmations.

“Prattled on a bit for my ears, harlot-”

“-Mister Shadwell!”

“Ahem- Newton, this year’s youngest contestant, is a computer engineer from Dorking. Currently unemployed, he’s taken the opportunity to try his hand at the craft of baking. Should try his hand at witch-finding if he’s got nothin’ better to do…”

A young man with wide eyes and spectacles stumbled in, looking like a stiff breeze or cross word could bowl him over. He tripped over his own feet twice on the way to his placement, before stumbling over a camera wire and catching himself on the handle of his oven door- the material squealed and the handle cracked with a sharp sound as the door fell open, pulling Newton down with it as he let out a yelp.

Tracy waited to see that a tech was helping the clumsy young man up and looking him over before moving on to the next contestant bio. “Pol is taking a break from running their retired grandfather’s pharmacy to pursue baking and takes pride in their unusual flavor combinations, such as lemon and… squid ink tarts… oh my…”

A pale figure wearing an already stained apron hooked a motorcycle helmet on the bare coat rack beside the entry point and shuffled to the next station, tucking unnaturally white hair behind an ear with one hand and crumpling up a napkin with the other. Bits of paper and crumbs dropped on the floor, forming a trail to their baking station, but no one moved to sweep up the mess.

Shadwell’s voice was getting more tired, if possible, every time he watched a new face wander in. “Ligur, an office worker from Bradford, specializes in dairy-free bakes, including his most popular creation on the internet, a cake modeled after his pet chameleon, Malebranche... Ach.”

Another man with an unusual gait, this time with a long, stilted stride, crept inside, looking darkly over the others before sitting on the floor before his station. A hand dove into his pocket, pulling out a bundle of collard greens from which he pinched off a thumbnail-sized portion. The bundle was tucked away again, and the bit he’d ripped off went into the opposite pocket, where something shifted ominously.

Missing all of this, Madame Tracy continued cheerily, “Raven is a self-taught cook whose experience with molecular gastronomy as the heir to Sable Hotels has led him to embrace ‘less is more’ to an astounding degree. He hopes to use a successful run here to bypass culinary school and convince his family to fund a micro-food restaurant.”

A svelte man in a form-fitting black suit swaggered in, setting a motorcycle helmet beside Pol’s on the underused coat rack. He straightened his jacket cuffs before striding smoothly to his place and sniffing in disdain at the large jar of sugar on the counter.

“Aziraphale is a librarian who lives in Soho with his flat mate, Glozier, and a pet snake called Asmodeus. A foodie, he hopes to win over the judges with indulgent and authentic global cuisine and open his own bookshop and cafe in the future…” Shadwell scoffed. “… Southern pansy.”

A softly-built man with pale curls and a tartan bowtie shuffled in nervously, shooting a soft, wavering smile at the others around him before fiddling with the utensils at his station and the intricately-designed gold ring on his pinky. A binder that looked like it belonged in the 19th century was pulled from his apron pocket and settled on the counter as neatly as it could be without falling apart.

“Mr. Shadwell, you cannot just call people-!” Tracy sighed deeply. “Crawly… oh- sorry, _Crowley_, a nanny and florist from London, bakes with confidence and a certain level of devil-may-care abandon he claims comes from spending years cooking with children, an ordeal he likens to raising the antichrist…”

Hips swaying like a Newton’s cradle gone awry, a man with long red curls and yellow snake-eye contacts sashayed in, bundled in what looked like a biblical cosplay robe. Not that it didn’t suit him, in a serpentine, garden of Eden sort of way. He ambled to his bench, eyeing his fellow contestants with unveiled amusement and disdain alike.

Shadwell ignored the ineffable cosplay, growling with no personal additions, “Carmine is a war correspondent who’s taking a quarter of vacation to compete here before heading abroad again for a documentary on Megiddo.”

A woman with blood red hair and an equally intense countenance stalked in, sizing up the competition. She hung her helmet above the others on the coatrack before tying up her hair and scoffing. Bright eyes burned with confidence as she marched to her setting, appraising the provided tools as if preparing weapons for a battle.

“Anathema is a cryptologist and translator from Tadfield, where she bakes for the local children, with whom she shares a love for conservation and history.” Tracy stood and moved to her next marker as she finished, eager to avert her eyes from Shadwell and the script to avoid any further secondhand embarrassment.

A woman in layers not quite as dated as Crowley’s hustled in, picking up her skirts as she stepped nimbly over camera wires and hurried to her station. The large glasses perched on her head were lowered onto her nose as she grazed the aged cookbook at her station with careful fingers.

“Finally, Uriel is an office worker from Christchurch whose penchal for paz- penchant for pizzazz often spreads from her makeup to her bakes. Ach, thank god we’re done.” Shadwell pushed himself up from the table with some difficulty and stood beside Tracy, glancing outside to where the judges would be making their entrances before sighing again. At least the paycheck was worth it.

Gold accented both the skin and otherwise muted clothing of the final entrant, who marched to her station with a frown as stiff as her starched slacks and stood with hands folded behind her back as the judges entered. An unreadable expression settled on her face, disaffected by the shenanigans of the hodgepodge of competitors before her.

Gabriel and Beelzebub strolled in on cue, the former with perfect posture and a steely stare for the hopeful bakers as his long legs carried him ahead. Grumbling about tall people and the many ways to tear them down to size, Lord Beelzebub stomped faster to catch up before the two turned in near-unison to face the room at large.

“Greetingzzz, bakerzz,” the shorter host hissed, tilting their head at an awkward angle to glower at each of the contestants in turn as they used their lisp to unnerving effect. Only Newton and Aziraphale appeared to be startled by the theatrics though, as the rest stood at various levels of attention or, in Crowley’s case, rolled their eyes.

Gabriel clapped his hands together, giving a wolfish smile that didn’t reach his icy eyes. “You all know the drill. We’re looking for the best amateur baker in the country, and somehow all of _you_ made it through audition bakes- Twelve of you are here now. Three will make it to the final. One will be leaving tomorrow. If you don’t want to be that one, we need to see beautiful bakes with flawless flavors in the Signature, Technical _and_ Showstopper challenges.”

“Okay bakers,” Madame Tracy chirped, “For the first signature challenge, Gabriel and Beelzebub would love you to make a roll cake- your sponge can be made and filled with any flavors you like, but it must be filled and rolled, and we want to see a lovely spiral when it’s sliced.”

“-Aye,” Shadwell added loudly when goaded by the camera crew to contribute to the explanation. He cleared his throat, glancing longingly to the tea table before sighing, “Ye have two hours. On yer marks.”

“Get set-”

“Bake,” they announced in tandem. Shadwell shook his head and loped off to his seat at the tea table while Tracy lingered a moment to watch the bakers get their bearings.

Apron strings were tightened, and mouths pressed into focused lines as the bakers lined up their ingredients and hardware. Tracy and Shadwell’s voiceover would be recorded the next morning, after basic editing had been done on the footage, but they still needed to hover about and ask questions of each baker once they’d had their tea and people got going.

This also marked the first year that Bake Off would have a cash prize and be broadcast in near real-time, with minimal editing and VO allowing for fans to see the weekend’s antics the following Friday night. The producer hoped this would make fan mail possible and discourse more dramatic, like certain televised talent competitions, as well as prevent the spoiling of eliminations before airing… After last year’s disaster with Adam and Eve’s tie breaker, that was a priority.

The judges and hosts split up to more quickly gather the basics on their first bakes. Tracy was the first to approach a workbench, making a beeline for the modestly-dressed Anathema. “Hello dear,” the host greeted, hovering at a respectable distance so as not to disturb the cracking of an egg as the baker separated yolks into a bowl.

“Good morning,” the contestant replied, a spark in her eye that defied the soft smile below, “Could you pass me that whisk?”

“Of course, dear.” Tracy plucked the utensil from the counter, passing it along as Anathema swapped the eggshells for a jar of sugar.

The cryptologist shook caster sugar lightly into the bowl until the scale readout satisfied her, then started to work it into the egg yolks with the whisk, finally giving her attention to the curious host as she blended them. “I’m making a lemon curd for the filling,” she explained, “have to get a head start to use some in the cake.”

“Oh my, that sounds interesting,” Tracy muttered, watching the other woman muddle the yolks and sugar, “So what are your flavors to be, Anathema?”

Testing the ribboning of the mixture, Anathema set the bowl over a simmering pot, eyes on her work as she zested a lemon into it and explained. “I’m doing a sherbet lemon rosemary cake- it’s a family recipe using homegrown herbs, very fresh and earthy. I’m going to do an inlay of Kirtland’s Warblers, a formerly endangered species serving as the poster child for the reversal of habitat destruction and corporate development… They’ll be the only source of lemon in the cake itself, while the brunt of the citrus is in the filling as a reminder that richness can be quite sour when not tempered with knowledge of the outside world.”

Blinking her heavily mascara’d lashes rapidly, Tracy pursed her lips as she brainstormed a suitable response before settling on, “That’s very thoughtful of you.” She wandered off wondering what other endangered birds had been considered for the cake while Anathema was busy cleaving the zested lemon in half and watched in amusement as Mr. Shadwell and the judges conducted their first interviews.

Gabriel straightened his sleeves, picking a pull from the cuff with a glare as if the string had consciously and maliciously tried to sabotage his tidy ensemble before striding purposefully to the station where Michael was popping a sheet pan into the oven.

“Chestnuts?” he questioned shortly, eyeing the half-empty jar on the counter as the woman rolled her sleeves sharply and started measuring flour.

“Yes. I’m making my brother-in-law’s nutter roll,” she sighed, glaring at the scale as she shook more flour into the bowl, “Uses ground almonds in the sponge and a chestnut toffee in the filling.”

“So named because of all the… nuts?”

“That and Mother said he was a nutter for eating a whole one once and it stuck because the fool can’t resist a pun. He’s embraced it and calls himself the reigning nutter king for being the only one in the family to have polished off a roll alone.” She dusted her hands off on her apron before setting aside the flour bowl and taking up the almonds, eyes on her work.

“I imagine your sister is a very patient woman,” Gabriel commended, his face schooled so as not to display his disgust at imagining a man eating an entire roll cake in front of his mother-in-law whilst producing horrible wordplay and wearing a paper crown.

“Brother,” Michael corrected, “but yes, he and I are the responsible ones of the family.” She pinned a stray bit of hair out of her face and turned her back to the judge, effectively abandoning the conversation to focus on blitzing her almonds in the food processor.

Beelzebub had a little more luck with conversation from their interviewee; Hastur had already poured a shot of bourbon on the off-chance that a judge might come by to partake, and he nudged it toward the corner with the side of his gloved hand as he drizzled more of the stuff over a bowl of sugared blackberries.

“Blackberry bourbon roll, if it wasn’t obvious by the blackberries and bourbon,” the pale fellow sighed, stirring the berries gently to dissolve the sugar in the bourbon without breaking up too many of the fruits. “It’s a good hangover cure.”

“Really?” Beelzebub mused flatly, sweeping the shot of bourbon up from the counter. They glanced about to confirm that Gabriel was distracted apologizing to Michael before downing the whole of it in a subtle swig. “I may have to be the judge of that- Gabriel doesn’t ‘sssully his celesstial body with grosss matter’ so if anyone’zzz getting drunk it’ll have to be me or Sergeant witch-hunt,” they hissed with the theatrically exaggerated form of their lisp, pouring themselves another shot as they eyed Shadwell warily. In a conspiratorial whisper, they added, “And I don’t think the producers want to find out how much of his crazy is contained by sssobriety.”

“No, I’d think not,” Hastur agreed, smoothing an airy batter onto the parchment on his baking tray, “Can’t be any stranger than the flash bastard with the robe though.” He jerked his head twitchily toward the station a few rows back where Crowley was dumping cider into an instant-pot, vast sleeves rolled up and mouth set in a focused frown.

“Tossss up,” Beelzebub assessed, inhaling the second shot of bourbon. “I’ll probably be talking with that one next… any particular stories about your recipe?” They raised a brow, personally uninterested in the history of any particular contestant’s cake but keenly aware that the audience ate up family nonsense and sentiment.

Hastur set his cake on the oven rack, almost burning his fingers as he pushed the pan in. “Er, no stories as such. _Wellll,_ there was the time I tempted a priest to try it, and he sampled the spirits alongside. He’s in a band now…”

Lord Beelzebub snickered, nodding as if in approval. “Sounds like my kind of priest. I’ll leave you to it then.” They ambled off, filching the empty shot glass in case of further booze, and took a moment to watch the developing chaos as people began to make their first mistakes. Crowley was dumping apples in an instant pot now, and Beelz didn’t feel like being in hot, flying applesauce range if the man made an error with the pressure options and the machine blew; instead, they skirted his station and eyed up the remaining contestants, looking for a less hazardous scene to round out their set of amusingly weird interviews.

Sergeant Shadwell had been hovering around the perimeter of the work area since the challenge began, not at all eager to ask about some of the smells and techniques he’d witnessed. Loath as he was to get roped into another of Mary’s conversations, her ingredients looked the safest of the bunch- and she’d been a nun, so of the folks here, she was possibly the least likely to be a witch. “Your bake looks… normal,” he hazarded, hoping she wouldn’t correct him by pulling out an aubergine and pointing out that it was, in fact, a fruit and therefore an appropriate cake filling.

“Yes,” Mary sighed, whisking a pot of simmering raspberries. “I thought it best to play to my strengths with a classic, rather than risk doing too much in my first bake and have to save myself later… I’m doing a raspberry cream roll, just vanilla sponge, raspberry jam, and buttercream. Light and simple. Of course, I have added chopped dark chocolate to the filling a few times when I’m feeling I need the pick-me-up, but cool day like today, the chocolate might be too firm and stick in your teeth, and wouldn’t that be a mess to have Gabriel judging…”

“Aye,” Shadwell ground out, casting his eyes to the ceiling of the tent as if to pray for an escape.

“Oh dear!” Mary ceased stirring suddenly, stooping to the oven to pull out her sheet pan with a frantic mutter. “I’ve forgotten the sugar in my sponge! Satan and demons preserve us…”

The sergeant had already taken the opportunity to back away as the woman became distracted, missing (much to the benefit of his sleep that night) the ex-nun’s invocation of demon-kind.

While Shadwell ambulated gracelessly out of Mary’s verbal orbit, the remaining bakers were expecting the inevitable questions about their roll cakes of choice.

The judges and hosts accommodated, to mixed results: Gabriel was pleased with the chic inlay planned for Uriel’s neapolitan ice cream-inspired roll, and unimpressed by the decadence of Aziraphale’s chocolate orange mousse cake or the man’s awkward politeness, cutting off the soft baker as he rambled about the development of his recipes through research on his ancient computer and the entire international culture section at the library, blah blah; Madame Tracy was delighted with Newton’s intention to build a Colin the caterpillar cake despite his stand mixer not functioning and a mishap with timers, though Raven’s sugarless angel food roll left something to be desired; Shadwell had to disguise his disgust at the concept of Pol’s charcoal roll, especially when the baker started chewing on a piece of the stuff, and wasn’t much more excited for Carmine’s chili chocolate salted caramel cake; Lord Beelzebub was less interested in Ligur’s sticky toffee pudding roll than the chameleon they caught nipping out of his pocket for a bit of veg, though they also appreciated the chaotic energy of Crowley’s (hopefully) violently purple ube, meringue, and apple butter roll when not standing in range of the pressure cooker.

When the half hour warning was given, a few of the contestants started to get antsy. Carmine and Anathema already had their cakes rolled and setting in the fridge while they worked on decorations, while on the other end of the spectrum, Newt’s cake was still raw because his oven had died, and he was practically sobbing into the chocolate he’d been melting. Most of the others were set to fill their rolls, checking inlays or brushing the surface of their sponge with spirit-laced simple syrup.

Aziraphale had just finished misting his sponge with Grand Marnier and retrieving his chocolate mousse and marmalade from the fridge when he caught on to the distressed sniffles coming from a few rows up. He bustled over, excusing himself as he nearly collided with a buzzed Beelzebub who’d sampled his orange liqueur several times in passing over the past hour and a half. He folded his hands as he approached Newt’s station, putting on a compassionate tone he hoped didn’t come out as pitying as he questioned, “Are you quite alright?”

The young man jerked a bit as he seemed to be caught on the verge of tears, wiping his hands under his eyeglasses to clear away any evidence before turning to the older fellow with a determined sniff. “I’m fine, sorry,” he assured, a stuffy sound to the words that betrayed his lie. “I’m just rubbish with electronics. I broke the mixer and the oven and I thought it was just baking slowly but now I don’t have a cake to present so instead of spending my unemployment ‘expanding my horizons’ like I told my mum I’ll be spending it getting shouted at by Gabriel Merritt on telly and going home like an idiot.” He sighed, seeming to decompress a bit at having someone to vent to. “Sorry if I distracted you.”

“Quite the opposite, my dear boy. I’m taking up your valuable recovery time. I’m sure you can get Colin righted. Buck up!” Aziraphale raised a fist with an encouraging smile, only to gasp suddenly and clap his hands together. “I’ll be right back,” he assured, hurrying back to his own station. He pulled a bowl from his fridge, spreading some of his spare batter thinly on a new jelly roll sheet before popping it in his oven. Then, he took up the prepped sponge and trundled it over to Newton, proffering it with a little clearing of his throat.

“Here you go. I’ve just realized, my first cake was too thick for the way I want to fill it, but it should be just sturdy enough to cover with chocolate.” He smiled through the justification of his actions, hoping Newton didn’t have a viable argument as long as he framed it as a win-win.

The boy finally gripped the rack bearing the cake, looking from the sponge to Aziraphale, then back with a watery, almost lost expression. “Thank you, but I can’t take-”

“-No need to thank me, and don’t let the sun go down on you here.” With that, Aziraphale turned on his heel and swanned back to his workspace as if nothing had happened. While the replacement sponge took about a 10-minute tanning session, he set his mousse back in the refrigerator and started to melt some white chocolate with orange oil for a quick, pipeable buttercream.

On the other side of the aisle, Crowley had been whisper-shouting at his speed-run apple butter to cook well for the better part of the last hour, fighting the pressure cooker’s paltry settings. His ube sponge was already lined with meringue; possibly a mistake- if it got soggy sitting out at room temperature while awaiting apple butter, he was going to curse someone.

With ten minutes left, Michael, Raven, and Pol had all finished their bakes and set them up, the former having a cup of tea. Mary and Uriel were decorating theirs with freeze dried raspberries and chocolate, respectively, while Newt chunked his chocolate-coated roll in the freezer and tripped over himself taking his Colin the caterpillar face mold to the counter to try and unmold it. Ligur had set up his roll and disappeared, claiming he needed a bathroom break fifteen minutes ago- Beelzebub for one had no doubt he was lurking somewhere, feeding Malebranche discretely from his pocket.

Similarly, Hastur was having a final bit of lurking before the end, brewing himself a cuppa and limping past the stations to scoff at everyone’s cakes. When he caught on that Aziraphale was working with a piping hot, undersized sponge this close to the time limit, he couldn’t help but sneer. “Did it take you two whole hours to bake such a titchy thing? Or did you eat the first one and have to restart?”

Crowley had been trying to ignore Hastur’s presence since he’d caught sight (and a whiff) of the man in passing at auditions, but something in his tone as he loitered nearby was irksome enough to make him glare across the aisle at the unpleasant man. The pale fellow was lurking around the station of the softly built fellow with the bowtie, making jibes obviously intended as hurtful. That sort of thing wasn’t done on Bake-Off- or to people who had been working as hard as everyone else on the bloody show and didn’t deserve taunts from a slimy lizard for their efforts.

As such, Crowley had just opened his mouth to say something crude in Hastur’s general direction when the cherubic baker retorted firmly, “I like to take the time to ensure quality in my bakes, unlike some people who think slapdash cooking can be covered up with spirits. And every time you pass my station, I have to check if my ingredients have gone off or if it’s just you, shambling about like a half-rotted corpse again looking for someone to pick on so you don’t have to admit you’re lonely and miserable. No one has found such shallow bullying amusing since primary school, though I imagine with the breadth of your vocabulary you haven’t been out of it long.” Aziraphale didn’t look up as he spoke, smoothly settling chocolate mousse onto his marmalade-brushed sponge before rolling the cake up with precision. He dusted his hands on his apron, seized his piping bag of fluffy, tinted buttercream, and added after a moment poised over the roll as if to decorate it, “Do run along, dear fellow- I should like the breathing room, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Crowley couldn’t help it- he stared. For at least thirty seconds his gaze was fixed on the cluttered station where a man who dressed like a dandy professor from the 1900s had just verbally fileted an amphibious wretch.

Finally, Hastur scoffed and stalked off to throw sugar over his cake and drink his tea, leaving Aziraphale to accidentally meet Crowley’s eyes as he glanced up at the disjointed motion. Both men startled and snapped their gazes away. The redhead might have glanced back again when he thought Aziraphale wasn’t looking if he had more time to spare. Only a few minutes were left, however, and he couldn’t get his damned apple butter out of the instant pot… He’d been fighting a losing battle against the thing and was starting to curse the machine under his breath when Tracy called, “One minute, bakers!”

Crowley was _attempting_ to clear a chunk of apple out of the ventilation and wrench the jammed lid off when the machine made a gurgling sound, followed by the lid being blown off with a shriek. The cover sailed past his right ear and flipped end over end until it struck Aziraphale dead in the face as the man was setting down his piping bag. The lid clattered to the floor like a dropped platter. The baker was downed with a secondary _thud_ as across the tent, eyes flew to the commotion, scaling Crowley, the lidless pressure cooker, and the prone form across the way.

He would never admit that he panicked… he had simply been startled by the possibility of having killed a man with a cooker lid so early in the competition- and without premeditation. Either way, Crowley joined the small group thronging around the fallen Aziraphale, relieved to see the man groggily trying to sit up and holding a bleeding but seemingly intact nose; that was a miracle in and of itself, as Crowley was quite sure he’d have broken several parts of his face and been concussed if he’d been struck with flying equipment like that. A medic was at the pale-haired baker’s side, helping him to stand carefully, providing a handkerchief for him to pinch his dripping nose with, and shooing the other bakers away as they led him out and toward the estate. He’d probably be taken to the infirmary they’d mentioned in case of _incidents _like this that might not warrant a hospital visit but required more than a plaster and a glove. Crowley watched him go, eyeing the completed cake on Zira’s station when he disappeared from view.

As Shadwell called, “A minute further to make up for the lost time, lads,” Crowley moved Aziraphale’s warm roll cake from the cutting board he’d been working on to the serving platter, a cute novelty plate made up to look like an orange, quickly adding buttercream rosettes at the base, before slinking back to his own. He didn’t have time to add the boiling hot apple butter now and settled for rolling up the cake-in-progress quickly and ambling toward the front of the tent as if to use the tea kettle. In passing he dropped a fistful of fine salt that had found its way onto his person over the open dish of caster sugar Hastur had been sprinkling on his roll before the commotion. He eyed the slimy man returning to his station and scooped a nearly dangerous amount of instant coffee into his mug as he enjoyed the delicious sight of Hastur’s cake being dusted liberally with iodized salt in the final seconds of the challenge.

“Time is up! Please place your cake rolls at the ends of your stations,” Tracy announced, tapping her teacup with a dowel like a bell. The cup cracked, a bit of tea dribbling out, and she hurried to set the items aside and shift away before Gabriel and Beelzebub took up their places at the front of the room. “Once you’ve been judged, please file out of the tent for lunch before we brief you on today’s canon-style technical challenge. It’s going to be a long afternoon so be sure to eat up.”

The judges began to make their way to Hastur’s station, taking the bakers’ left column first. The reedy, wild-haired man inched aside to gesture at his completed bake; plasters decorated his right hand where he had burned himself flambéing the blackberries, which were falling out of the ends of his vanilla sponge roll with a melting ooze of spiked whipped cream. “It’s a blackberry bourbon vanilla cake,” he explained shortly.

Gabriel sniffed in disdain as he sliced the cake, setting a less messy piece from the middle on the tasting plate before prodding at the sponge and filling with his fork. “I don’t think keeping the berries whole did you any favors,” he started flatly, “and the last-minute decision to flambé cost you the structural integrity of your cream.” The tidier judge paused to take a bite, a forkful of cake and cream followed by a speared blackberry. His stern face soured further. “You mixed up your sugar and salt on the top there,” he coughed, pushing the plate away. “And then the bourbon comes through too strongly and overpowers any of the sweetness or fruitiness that’s left underneath the savory. It tastes like something you’d make and eat while drunk. I’m a little disappointed, because your sponge is perfectly light and well-baked, which is great for cake week, but it can’t shine marinated in bourbon and salt.”

While Gabriel picked at the dessert, Beelzebub shoved a forkful in their mouth, chewing slowly and shoveling another bite in while their co-judge was whingeing. Their expression was blank until the tent was again silent, Hastur’s head drooping as he apparently realized his multitude of errors. Finally, Lord Beelz wiped a bit of bourbon whipped cream from the corner of their mouth and droned with a bored frown, “I like boozzy sweetss, unlike Mister Prohibition here… _but_\- a rum cake thiss is not. It’s a salty delivery sssystem for alcohol poisoning, which, while impressive, isn’t what we asked for. C-minus, Hassstur.”

Tracy took up cheerleader duty, snagging a blackberry from the judges’ plate as they moved on and patting Hastur’s bony arm as she sampled the fruit theatrically. “It does have a lovely kick, Hastur,” she reassured him, flashing a sympathetic smile and pulling a thoughtful Shadwell away from the salted cake with a stern, “Remember your blood pressure, Mr. Shadwell,” as she followed the others along to Mary’s counter.

The nun-turned-business-owner beamed as she presented her cake, which consisted of a pastel pink sponge topped with buttercream swirls and raspberry powder. It was a tidy, visually sound presentation, with a tight spiral of smooth sieved jam and buttercream.

Gabriel scanned the roll, stone-faced, before raising his sharp violet eyes to Mary’s cheery face. “What did you add to make the sponge pink?”

“Well, I tried making it at home with beetroot powder like I’ve seen on healthful cooking shows, but it kept turning out reddish brownish and it didn’t look an appetizing raspberry color at all, so I just swapped it out for liquid red food coloring and gel to test. Of course, then I had to reduce the temperature because it was still browning before it was done- needless to say, there were lots of free cake bites at the paintball range last week before I managed it this light peony color because I’m trying not to eat too many sweets while I’m practicing so I can taste everything on the weekends without feeling sick or sluggish. And of course my mother has been persistent lately in pointing out that without the convent I’m free to date and trying to introduce me to successful persons of my age and I’d rather they not see piles of cake on every surface as a first impression, especially as I already have to explain the satanism and the paintball range as major facets of my life, so it’s going to be a bit of a wild ride getting all of these bakes just right without neglecting something else.”

As Mary took a breath, Gabriel broke in before the rant could continue, electing to ignore the word ‘satanism’ lest his own religiosity show too strongly and ruin the next few minutes of film and his stern but cool reputation. “Yes, that sounds trying,” he assured flatly “Adversity aside, let’s see how your bake holds up.”

Beelzebub had spaced out after ‘food coloring’ and it took a brisk kick in the ankle from their co-judge before they came back to earth enough to send a glare his way and pick up a cake knife with the mildest of threatening gestures. They took a slice from the center of the roll, cutting a bite for themselves with their fork before Gabriel could jab at it to test the crumb and squish the lot. They chewed slowly, pulling a bit of a face as some of the dried raspberry crunched, but cleared their throat to announce their opinion first this time. “That’sss a textbook raspberry roll cake. Nothing shocking, but balanced and full-flavored. Ssieving the jam kept the texture consistent and your buttercream izzn’t overly sweet. The only negative assside from being a bit boring is that the blitzed raspberry bits on top stick in your teeth and the sponge is a little overworked and tough.”

“Ah yes, I forgot the sugar when I put it in the oven and had to scrape it back into the bowl to add it so it got mixed a lot. I didn’t want to start over and risk an under-baked cake because indigestion on top of all these sweets would be a terrible start to the day…”

Shadwell took the moment of unsure quiet that followed to puzzle over the woman’s words from earlier, gears turning in his head until he slurred a gravelly, “How many nip-“

“-Oh, it’s lovely,” Tracy gushed, interrupting the familiar question by shoving a bite of cake in the mouth of the Sergeant, whose sweet tooth overruled his gruff desire to appear unmoved by the cake of a devil-worshipping potential witch.

“Aye,” he agreed after swallowing, deciding almost too late to move his occult inquiries to the back-burner while the cameras were rolling.

Gabriel took a minute bite as usual, working it over in his mouth like a cake-chromatograph. “I disagree on the freeze-dried raspberry- I think it’s a nice textural component. It’s a sound cake, but like Bee said, rather plain. Just some white chocolate or a bit of citrus zest would have livened it up. If it hadn’t been almost faultless as a classic, you would have been in some trouble; as it is, you need to step up and take risks or your bakes will only be average, which won’t keep you here long. And be more careful with your sponge mix. Thank you.” He turned away from her bench and toward the next with a stony look of disinterest, only to blink at the monstrosity heaped on the table before him.

Pol’s cake was… something. It was nearly black and crumbling apart into a mound of rubble and frosting where it appeared to have been handled roughly at the ends. The baker responsible was smudged with black as well, fingers and apron stained with smears like graphite. The filling was beige and dotted with bits of something, as if chocolate or sprinkles had been involved briefly, and any spiraling in the roll had been lost to the structural damage done to the dry black cake by some sort of physics miscalculation.

“This is…?” Gabriel questioned, a hint of irritated confusion creeping into his practiced monotone.

“It’s a charcoal potato flour sponge with carob sour cream,” Pol droned, sniffing and wiping their nose with the back of their sleeve.

“And what happened to the ends that’s made it fall apart so much?” Beelzebub added, putting off the tasting for just a moment.

“I picked it up to move it to the serving tray and some of it stuck to the pan or my hands.” It didn’t look as though Pol had washed them since.

The judges shared a look as if daring each other to try it before Beelz gave in to the disturbed twitch in Gabriel’s eyes with a melodramatic sigh and scooped a ‘slice’ onto the small judging plate. They scraped up a minimal forkful and muttered, “Cheers,” before knocking back the unusual cake. It wasn’t as if activated charcoal wasn’t trendy or harmless, but the clump of ‘cake’ was only in their mouth a few seconds before they swallowed hard without chewing and coughed. “That tastes like mesquite and spoiled milk,” they spat, face gone a bit off-color. “Izzz that actually food-grade activated charcoal, or did you jussst grind up a couple briquettes out of ssssomebody’s grill? And did you sweeten the sour cream at all or jussst leave it out all morning and pack it in the middle?”

Pol’s head tilted, smeared eyeliner and stained clothing adding to the unnatural look of apathy in their pale eyes. “It’s from an old bag of lump charcoal at home- I bought it from a Mexican convenience store and liked the taste… and I made the sour cream with milk and vinegar a few days ago.”

Gabriel had been stabbing at the pile of crumbs on the plate, and announced as Beelzebub glared expectantly at him, “I’m not eating this- it’s clearly overbaked, looks and smells like a pile of cigarette ashes suspended in spoiled cream, and though charcoal has medical uses, a bite of this smoky mess is more likely to cause indigestion then aid it. Bakers are encouraged not to rely on pica cravings for inspiration for their bakes in the future.”

Without another word, he escaped, leaving Lord Beelz to mime kicking out the backs of his knees for his traitorous cowardice in the face of the unpleasant coal cake as they dug in their pockets for a packet of cinnamon gum. Tracy and Shadwell followed without any banter, eager to avoid taste testing in this case. Pol appeared unbothered as they picked bits of sponge apart and dropped them on the floor.

Raven’s cake was next, and the display was quite the opposite of Pol’s abstract, void nightmare. His sponge was pale and fluffy, though half the size of most other rolls present, and it was spiraled neatly around a wet, eggshell-tinted filling

“Care to explain your bake?” Beelzebub prompted loudly, a brow raised even as they chomped their gum to rid themselves of the taste of charcoal.

“It’s a coconut flour angel food roll with a stevia Greek yogurt frosting,” Raven provided, obviously proud of his healthful choices.

Beelzebub personally thought it sounded like diet rubbish, but they let Gabriel slice a neat whorl of the stuff without complaint. They dug in with a passive-aggressively large bite as the turtleneck-wearing bakery model beside them took a modest one, spitting out their gum into their hand just to gross Gabriel out before shoving the massive forkful in their maw. As expected, the Greek yogurt was weirdly tangy for a cake filling, and with such a light base and no hint of fruity citrus or real sugar, it was like a plain bagel and cream cheese without the goodness of saturated fats.

“For a sugar-free, fat free, low cal bake, it’ssss alright,” Beelz conceded, “but, for a signature swiss roll, it’s lacking substance. Even some vanilla scrapings or citrus peel would have added flavor without making this a decadent piece of dezzzzert.”

Gabriel took a moment after his co-judge’s remarks to have a second bite, something rare for the fellow who claimed the body was ‘a vessel of heaven’s light that can only be maintained properly with vigilance and self-restraint in the face of decadence and sin,’ but then again, it would be a low-everything-including-fun cake that he enjoyed. “It’s quite different,” he started, obviously parrying Lord Beelzebub’s criticism, “it is a little one-note, and the frosting in the middle isn’t quite as thick as it should be for this application… But-” (his favorite word when acting like his youth spent in his family’s bakery made his insights deeper than Beelzebub’s Youtube career ever could) “- the combination is pleasant and light, the bake on the angel food is spot-on even with the alternative flour and sweetener, and you did get a lovely spiral.” It wasn’t a handshake moment, but Gabriel smiled and clapped a vaguely smug-looking Raven on the shoulder.

Beelzebub rolled their eyes before sticking their chewed gum to the plate beside the rest of the cake slice, lest Gabriel get any ideas about a third bite. They stalked past the station to the scene of the earlier ‘crime,’ looking Crowley up and down before even glancing to his cake. His robes were flecked with flour and streaks of apple butter, but he wasn’t wearing any plasters or ice packs- it seemed he’d been one of the lucky few to complete the task unthwarted, or at least, it would seem so if it weren’t for the total absence of apple in his swiss roll. The cake was a lovely shade of orchid swirled decently with pure white filling, but the unplugged, lidless pressure cooker still held all the apple butter Crowley had promised. The curly-haired baker across the aisle had apparently been taken out for nothing.

“Your roll, Crowley?”

The redhead clapped his hands together as if psyching himself up. “Right! So, this is my ube sponge filled with vanilla Italian meringue, absent of planned apple butter due to a technical difficulty that may or may not have broken a fellow’s nose and an airspeed record for flying kitchen implements, can I hear a wahoo?”

The judges were silent for a moment, the baker’s awkward chuckle equally so. Beelzebub took up the cake knife, lifting a slice to their plate before making eye contact with Gabriel as they wiped the tacky, meringue-smeared blade on their sleeve. The two of them sampled in tandem, slow, pensive chewing punctuated with a smack on the table as Beelz swallowed and let loose a lopsided smirk.

“That’s actually pretty good,” they admitted, finally pleased to find a weird _and_ tasty cake among the set, “it is ssorely missing the fruity, caramelized, spiced components of that apple butter, but the choice of meringue with the ube givezzz it almost a nutty nougat flavor, and there’s not a grain of undissolved sugar or dried-out sponge to be found. Nice work. Next time maybe read the manual on the equipment.”

Gabriel waited, looking stern and still, as the smaller judge offered their critique, not picking apart the sponge as he had with some of the others. When Beelz finished, he cleared his throat and fixed Crowley with a flat stare. “That is a great cake that could’ve been fantastic. The meringue is a nice break from the typical heavy buttercream filling, and the ube is reminiscent of taro or sweet potato in a good way. But as my fellow judge has pointed out, your brief included apple butter, and as pleasant as it smells from here, we didn’t get any on the plate and there’s a void in your flavors and textures because of it. Luckily it worked as is, but incidental functionality won’t save you from poor time-management in the future.”

Crowley made a face that seemed torn between pleased surprise and rebellious indignation before humming eloquently, “Mhm.”

Beelzebub led the judge train on to the next station while Tracy and Shadwell loitered to taste the ube roll, the supposedly prescient of the three muttering about having a premonition it was a good bake all-round before sneaking a spoon into the cooled pressure cooker to nab a bit of the apple butter for her cake.

Anathema watched the shenanigans behind the judges as they approached, dipping her head in greeting before launching into her explanation unprompted. “This is my ‘Save the Warblers Sherbet Lemon Rosemary Swiss Roll.’ It’s a rosemary sponge with inlay of birds, filled with lemon curd. Kirtland’s warblers were nearing extinction before breeding and habitat restoration saved them from the brink. I think the same step back from deforestation should be taken across the world to ensure all endangered avian species have the chance to coexist with humanity.”

Neither of the judges said a word about the passionate speech, electing instead to cut into the roll while Tracy gushed, “What a lovely inlay you managed with the tinted batter. How did you get them to keep their shape?”

“I froze the pan with the inlay piped on before putting the rest of the batter over it to bake, so they wouldn’t spread or smear.”

“Ah! Fascinating.”

While the psychic continued to be enthralled with the decoration, Gabriel had processed an adequate bite of the cake. “The flavors are good… almost _too _sour and thick without any cream beside the curd, but it’s not grainy or starchy from rushing the process in the time given, and the rosemary isn’t overpowering in the sponge. It’s a good cake.”

“Ssssturdy,” Beelzebub agreed, pointing out the tight spiral in the roll glued with lemon curd, “and a skillful inlay, especially including the grey feather streaks between the black and yellow piping- hard to do on parchment in reverse. The tartness is good- but be careful with your textures. It could get gluey eating more than a couple bites without anything between the cake and curd, ssssocial commentary aside.”

They dipped their head and led the way back up to the front of the tent, where they were beginning again with the other column of bakers’ benches. Michael stood tall behind a plush roll decorated with tawny ridges of piped frosting, toasted coconut, and crushed toffee. When prompted by an encouraging gesture from Gabriel, the baker explained clearly, “This is a Nutter Roll, named for my brother-in-law. It’s almond chiffon cake with chestnut toffee, coffee frosting, and toasted coconut.”

“It looks like an Autumn version of a yule log,” Gabriel commended, “I would expect to see this presentation in a bakery. The piping is exact, and the shades of brown are used well to keep it from looking boring.” He cleaved a neat slice, sliding it onto the plate with only a couple flakes of coconut ending up on the table. After his procedural texture/bake test and a slow bite, he made a puzzled face and licked his lips, raising his head to give Michael an unreadable look.

Beelzebub rolled their eyes again at his tension-building tactic, stuffing another bite in their mouth as an excuse to ignore him.

“That’s delicious,” Gabriel finally admitted, setting his fork down. “The chiffon is pillowy, you get a good crunch and caramelized flavor from the toffee, and that coffee cream is very light. Did you use vegetable oil?”

“Palm kernel. After a Hong Kong style bakery near my office that does matcha rolls.”

“Well, it works. It’s not greasy or thin, and the natural sweetness of the almonds and chestnuts comes through.” He extended a hand, which Michael shook with only a moment of surprised delay. “Thank you.”

Beelzebub picked a bit of toffee from their teeth and sighed before finally feeling free to offer their opinion. “It’s a good example of chiffon cake, and the subtle coffee goes well with the nuttiness. A good bake, overall.”

Shadwell swiped what was left on the judging plate as everyone marched along to the next bench, offering Michael a thumbs up as he chased the stolen bite of cake with a gulp of condensed milk tea.

Newt trembled visibly as the judges stopped before his bench, pushing up his batter-smeared spectacles with bandaged fingers. “Right, so… This is my… Colin the Caterpillar roll. Um, Mr. Aziraphale lent me one of his cakes because my oven was broken and the chocolate buttons are from a packet, but I made the face, the buttercream, and- and the tempered chocolate shell.” He took a deep breath, swaying a little on his feet.

“This is cake week,” Gabriel said flatly. “We’re meant to judge you on _your _sponge, not your competitor’s. If it were up to me, we’d consider half of this challenge a failure before taking into account the other elements. Bee?”

Beelzebub glared up at their co-host, unamused by the nickname and lack of title. Always willing to defy the pretty boy, they smirked devilishly before sweetening the smile to a more patronizing one to fix on Newton. “_I’m _feeling rather merciful today. Perhaps a trial by jury is in order. Contestants and hosts! Raise your hand if you think the willing donation of an element by another baker should be judged as part of the other baker’s dish.”

Only three other bakers were left in the tent along with Shadwell and Tracy, eliminating the need for a tie-breaker since Beelz and Gabriel would cancel each other out: Carmine crossed her arms, a crimson smirk on her lips; Ligur looked thoughtful for a moment before raising two gloved fingers; Uriel sighed, scanning the cake, then Newton, but didn’t move.

Six sets of eyes turned on Tracy and Shadwell, who looked startled to be in the spotlight, however momentarily. “W-well… of course I-”

“Hands, not voices,” Beelzebub ordered.

Two hands rose in silence.

Lord Beelzebub nodded, pretending to count slowly to confirm. “Looks like it’s three against two. The cake stays, Gabe.” They may have stuck out their tongue while facing away from the two cameras following their progress.

Gabriel looked stormy but said nothing as he hastily cleaved Colin the caterpillar in twain. His mouth twitched into a smug smile as some of the chocolate shell sloughed off, not totally set where it met the sponge. He broke a bit off of the white chocolate face and tasted that first, both pleased and disappointed that there was no shocking flavor addition, then addressed the cake. The sponge was soft cocoa chiffon, with white vanilla buttercream in a tight swirl. The hint of orange liqueur was pleasant, and the buttercream was rich and fluffy, though there were some undissolved sugar granules.

“A solid effort,” the violet-eyed host granted, “but your buttercream is grainy and your chocolate shell, while shiny, isn’t properly set. It would be appropriate for a children’s party, but the discerning palate can tell it’s not quite there on any of the elements but the sponge, and the orange there which is the only original thing added to this classic recipe is overtaken by the sweetness of the buttercream and the thick milk chocolate shell. Keep in mind you’re baking for adults.”

Beelzebub shouldered Gabriel out of the way to point at various elements of the cake. Jabbing at the frosting, they listed, “It’s almost too ssweet, and not enough vanilla so it tastes more like sugared butter,” then moving on to the shell, “The temper was good, but you ran out of time before the thing set and it is a bit thick, which made it take longer and is a bit much to eat. That said-” They cut a second massive bite and tossed it back before plucking the face off the cake and chomping into half of it, mumbling the rest through a mouthful of cake and chocolate. “- as a whole it’sss a decent bake, and for people who like sssweets, it would make a good breakfast with coffee.” They followed Gabriel to Ligur’s table next, dusting crumbs off and _into _the fabric of their sash and suit jacket as they slunk over.

Ligur was quiet, if twitchy, and his cake looked halfway between Michael’s and Pol’s as far as tidiness went. The sponge was dark and looked rather soggy in places from the toffee sauce soaking the roll and pooling beneath it on the plate, and it was rolled lengthwise around what appeared to be vanilla custard. “It’s a, erm, sticky toffee pudding roll.”

Beelzebub took the initiative to cut into the roll before Gabriel could bother making an excuse not to get his hands sticky, stealing the first bite as payment for the tacky state of their fingers after. They chewed a couple times before pausing at an audible crunch, meeting Gabriel’s eyes as the taller judge lowered the fork that had been headed for his mouth. “Did you put nuts in this?” they questioned, hoping for a rational explanation because whatever had crunched had been in their mouth too long to be quickly forgotten and they wanted to avoid spitting more cake out on film if possible.

“No, just the dates. I left the pits in for texture.”

“Uh-huh…” Lord Beelzebub was well-versed in the toxicity of various plants, but harmless didn’t mean appetizing. Still, they finished their bite of cake with a few more muted crunches and went back in for some more toffee sauce. “Next time I’d pit them- it doesn’t add anything _good _to the texture, Ligur.” They continued their critique while Gabriel cheated and cut around the dates in the sponge for his bite, “The cake’s a little squishy from the sauce, perhaps it was poured on too early in the challenge, and you rolled it the wrong way so there’s barely a swirl. However, it tastes like you added some salt to the toffee, which keeps it from being sssickly sweet, and for the most part it does taste like a sticky toffee pudding.”

Gabriel had eaten his barebones forkful by then and tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the counter as he considered the cake. “It’s a bit of a mess, not presentable… but your flavors are good, and everything was cooked well. The sponge is a bit wet, but where the toffee sauce hasn’t soaked through you can feel that it’s not under-baked. It’s… okay.”

Aziraphale’s unmanned roll was next, and Gabriel sighed before recounting from his interview with the absent baker, “A chocolate orange roll… at least it’s done.” The chocolate chiffon cake did look well-finished, with piped orange rosettes along the top and base that had only slightly melted from the warm cake. He cut a slice, tsking at the half-solid mousse that seeped out of the otherwise neat roll. “It was too hot when it was assembled,” he critiqued, taking a bite with all the elements before continuing, “The mousse is spot on where it hasn’t been liquified, and the marmalade is nice and sharp if you can taste it where it’s melted into the sponge, but the cake is too thin.”

Beelzebub had two bites while waiting for Gabriel to wrap his speech up, then added, “It needs the marmalade to cut the richnesss, and you don’t get enough of it either because not enough was put on, or it all melted and got lossst in the mousse and sponge. The buttercream looks nice but doesn’t do much for the cake flavor-wise. Orange extract would have worked better than oil, but it didn’t need frosting at all on top of the mousse’s sssweetness.”

With no baker to accept their critiques, they were free to move on to Carmine, whose cake was all warm colors and sharp edges. A brick red cake was coiled around streaky copper frosting, and jagged triangles of brittle stuck out from the top of the sponge at all angles.

“Sweet and salty meets sweet and spicy,” she explained, “Chili red velvet cake with salted caramel buttercream and spicy pecan brittle decorations.”

Both judges plucked a piece of brittle from the surface of the roll before tucking in to the slice.

Both judges realized it was a mistake to do so moments later, when Gabriel was having a coughing fit and Beelzebub had to spit out food for the second time that day.

“What’ssss in this?” the smaller judge managed to wheeze between sips of water.

“Carolina reaper hot sauce,” Carmine replied, snapping a piece of brittle herself as if to mock the judges for their weakness against spice.

Beelzebub stuffed their face with cake to forget the overwhelmingly spicy taste of the brittle, only to encounter an almost savory blend of spiced cake and salted filling. “The texturezz, design, and baking skill are good,” they mumbled, loath to admit any positive points while their tongue was still burning, “but it doesn’t taste like a cake at all and that brittle almost makes me forget the horrorzz of charcoal cake.”

Gabriel hesitantly tasted the cake, face stuck in a sour expression as he regained the use of his taste buds too early to avoid the mole-reminiscent roll. “It’s not great,” he coughed simply, escaping quickly to the final bench.

Uriel had waited patiently to present her stylish roll, which was inlaid with cocoa diamond shapes and decorated with buttercream swirls bearing disks of ruby and white chocolate in artful patterns. The pristine swirl was filled with two-tone buttercream and strawberry jam, fulfilling the baker’s promise of a Neapolitan roll.

“It looks stunning,” Gabriel commended before daring to take the thing apart. The slice was as prim as the rest of the roll, and both judges were more than willing to risk a large bite after their last ordeal. “Definitely a modish cake for a corporate or fashion event, with unpolarizing flavors executed well. Is that rose in the jam?”

“Some rosehip syrup, yes. I thought the floral would pair nicely with the fruit since I wanted to keep the chocolate subtle. There’s some in the ruby chocolate as well.”

Beelzebub snuck a piece of the decorative chocolate before their assessment, smirk back in full swing. “Not totally boring, for a kids’ ice cream flavor profile,” they admitted, “Everything’zzz nicely balanced and the overall look is effective. Well done.” With a dip of their head, they dismissed the final baker, waiting until she had taken her leave to crack their spine loudly and stalk after the contestants toward the cafeteria set. Gabriel followed a few steps behind, flanked by Tracy and Shadwell, who’d gone silent for the last few cakes. They arrived indoors in a cluster, breaking off in the dining area: Beelz made a beeline for the drinks station to wash the last of the reaper sauce away; Gabriel grabbed a water bottle and swanned to an empty table; Shadwell started piling a plate with egg salad sandwiches; Tracy mingled with the contestants sharing their bakes at a long table.

Aziraphale had been released from the makeshift infirmary minutes after judging wrapped up, clutching a fresh bag of ice to keep his bruising nose and cheek from swelling up too badly but armed with the lucky prognosis that nothing had been broken and it was unlikely he’d been concussed. As he ventured outside to fetch his cookbook from the tent before joining the others for between-round tea, Crowley materialized beside him, an unreadable expression on his face as he squinted at the vacant tent. His yellow eyes steered clear of the blonde’s face, whether out of shame or discomfort Aziraphale couldn’t tell.

He’d paused his walk down the hill, waiting patiently to see if the fellow needed something or had coincidentally been going the same direction, when an unexpectedly melodic voice rumbled, “Well that went down like a lead balloon.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been working on this chapter on and off for a couple months alongside other writing and composition when I’ve had time/inspiration, and it became rather an expansive mass of character introduction and cake. The plan is to focus more on Crowley and Aziraphale once this chapter establishes the characters and their bake styles as a sort of series opener, rather than doing POVs for lots of the characters or doing the full format of Bake-Off episodes like the bit with the interviews (partly because that would be a lot of interview filler for 30+ chapters and updates will take longer if I have every baker discuss every bake before they’re explained succinctly in judging).
> 
> If you guys really like the interviews though, I can throw a few in for color. ALSO, I’d like to say that if anyone has suggestions for something they’d like someone to bake, feel free to drop comments/requests; I have all the challenges decided but not individual bakes beyond Cake Week, so an outside perspective would be helpful in getting some of the creativity that comes from different minds interpreting the challenges.


End file.
